On Losing a Scent (and Other Versions of Myself)

I found out by accident. I was online, half-heartedly searching for a backup bottle, the way you do when something feels eternal and slightly taken for granted, like white shirts or mascara. I wasn’t expecting anything dramatic. I simply thought I’d top up. Instead, it said: Discontinued. No suggested alternatives. No explanation. Just that. Final and unbothered, as if it made perfect sense.

It felt oddly personal. This scent had been mine since I was sixteen. I wore it through university, long-haul flights, heartbreaks, birthdays I pretended to enjoy. Strangers used to stop me in shops. Men I barely fancied would remember it for years. It was the kind of perfume that didn’t whisper. It walked in with you. And now, apparently, it no longer exists.

Michael Kors Eau de Parfum launched in 2000, though I doubt I knew that then. I just knew it smelt expensive. Not minimalist or delicate. Not that sterile "clean girl" aesthetic so many perfumes chase now. This was lush. Full-bodied. The kind of scent that suggested good lighting, strong opinions, and the possibility of misbehaviour. It was built around tuberose, something I’ve since learnt is a bit of a diva note. Creamy, heady, a little unruly. It doesn’t blend in. It demands to be noticed. The other notes were a mix of gardenia, lily, soft woods, and something golden and warm I could never quite name. I’d spray it and feel taller. There was nothing casual about it. It didn’t smell effortless or coy or breezy. It smelt like someone who had already chosen the best table in the restaurant and didn’t plan on moving. Even the bottle looked like it had opinions.

It was a birthday present from my aunt. I’d just turned sixteen, that peculiar, slightly unfinished age where you’re not quite formed but think you might be. I don’t remember what I was wearing or where we went that day, but I remember unwrapping the box. She said something like, "It’s grown-up, but you’ll wear it well." She understood that beauty could be a kind of armour, and that scent, when chosen well, could be both invitation and shield. She was Jewish, glamorous, Hedy Lamarr and Grace Kelly rolled into one, but softer, accessible. The kind of woman who made elegance feel like something you could inherit.

At the time, I didn’t really wear perfume. Not properly. I had a few body sprays and a bottle of something syrupy from Boots that smelt like being seventeen and trying too hard. But this was different. The bottle had weight. The scent didn’t just sit on the skin; it expanded into the air around you. I remember putting it on and feeling changed. Not older, exactly, but composed. Like I’d been let in on something. Like I’d learnt a secret I didn’t know I’d needed. It didn’t feel like borrowing someone else’s perfume. It felt like being quietly handed something that was already mine.

I wore it almost every day for the next fifteen years. It changed as I did. At sixteen, it felt like aspiration, something I was trying to grow into. In my twenties, it became familiar, like a second skin. By my thirties, it was armour. Not brittle. Silk with structure. I’d wear it to meetings, on tired mornings, on dates where I wasn’t sure if I was interested. It didn’t make me feel younger. It made me feel sharper. Like I was choosing myself on purpose. It wasn’t that I still liked it. It was that I never questioned it.

It became part of the way I moved through the world. I’d spray it before leaving the house and feel slightly more precise. Like the outline of myself had been redrawn. People noticed. That was part of it. I’ve had women stop me in lifts and lobbies, asking quietly, "Sorry… but what perfume are you wearing?" Old boyfriends remembered it. One once messaged to say he’d smelt something that reminded him of me and had to sit down on a bench. There was something about it that lingered. It didn’t flirt. It held space. It didn’t just smell good. It belonged to me. The kind of scent that introduced you before you spoke, and stayed behind when you left.

I don’t know when it disappeared. Not exactly. First it was out of stock. Then it was only on odd reseller sites with pixelated photos and too many exclamation marks. Then it was gone. I assumed it would always exist. It wasn’t tied to a trend or a season. It just worked.

Of course I tried to find more. I stalked eBay like a woman on a mission. I’ve paid over £120 for a bottle. Bought ones listed as "gently used," which sounds suspect but smelt divine. I once ordered a tester from Missouri labelled "vintage floral magic." Now people are charging hundreds. A half-used bottle sells for the price of a train fare. It’s become a kind of contraband. I keep tabs on it the way some people watch the stock market. Even when I manage to get hold of one, it never quite feels secure. Like I’m borrowing from a time capsule. Like it might vanish again, for good.

Perfume is personal in a way nothing else quite is. Lipstick can be replaced. Clothes can be tailored. But scent? Once it’s gone, it’s gone. There is no close enough when what you’re trying to find is yourself.

People had suggestions, of course. They always do. Have you tried Narciso Rodriguez? Flowerbomb? Something from Tom Ford? I sampled them all. I even gave in and tried the molecule one that’s meant to blend with your DNA and make strangers fall in love with you. It smelt like static. This was before perfume became a hashtag. Before people started layering three fragrances and calling it a personality. I didn’t want a ritual. I wanted something that felt instinctively mine.

A friend once sprayed me with something called Tuberose Angelica and said, "You’ll love this — it’s so you." It wasn’t. It was nice. Polished. The kind of scent that had married well and settled down in Chelsea. I’ve tried samples, vials, rollerballs, the occasional rogue spritz at Duty Free. Some were beautiful. Some disappeared within five minutes. One turned into something that smelt vaguely of hot printer ink and regret.

But none of them did what that perfume did. None of them made me feel inhabited. That scent didn’t sit on top of me. It wrapped around me like muscle memory. It wasn’t about smelling nice. It was about recognition. Alignment. That quiet little yes you hear when something fits.

So I’m still looking. Or perhaps I’m not. Maybe I’m just waiting. For something that feels right, without asking for attention. There’s something grounding about knowing what suits you. Not what’s fashionable, not what’s flattering. Just what belongs. And losing that, especially when it’s something as subtle as scent, is like seeing a photo of yourself and not recognising your own expression.

I’ve learnt that people mean well when they offer replacements. Sometimes it’s fun to try. But nothing lands the same when what you’re reaching for isn’t a new version. It’s the original. That scent that didn’t require effort or explanation. That quiet, effortless "oh, there I am."

It’s not just nostalgia. It’s chemistry. Perfume doesn’t move through logic. It goes straight to the limbic system, the part of the brain that holds emotion, memory, survival. You don’t analyse a smell. You just feel it. That’s why a familiar scent can bring you to your knees without warning. Why it makes you feel safe. Or exposed. Or like you’re ten years younger and don’t want to talk about it. The brain files scent under instinct, not story.

So when you lose a perfume, you’re not just losing a bottle. You’re losing all the versions of yourself that lived inside it.

I don’t wear anything consistently now. I try things. I admire them. But nothing has claimed me yet. Nothing’s made me pause and think, this is how I want to be remembered. Maybe something will. Maybe it’ll surprise me. Or maybe I’ll just keep wearing whatever’s left in that last bottle, drop by precious drop, until the scent fades. That creamy floral warmth.. that little flicker of gold.. and I remember it anyway.